


as if a map was given

by an_ardent_rain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_ardent_rain/pseuds/an_ardent_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is the Righteous Man, and the angels sent down to find him are two brothers who call themselves Sam and Dean.  But these two angels aren't too happy with what's going on in heaven, and instead of helping the apocalypse along, they want to stop it.  Castiel has to throw away everything he thought he knew about angels and God, and discover that sometimes things aren't meant to be - that there's no order or plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as if a map was given

The clock on his bedside table reads three AM when Bobby Singer wakes to its alarm.

He groans and thinks with a grim certainty that he wasn't the one who set his clock.

“I'm up,” he says to the air, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He slips his feet into his slippers and digs around under the bed for the house robe his wife Karen had gotten him years earlier. He might not be the most civilized of men but he'd be damned before he went out to meet a pair of angelic idjits in nothing but a t-shirt and his briefs.

He ties a quick overhand knot in the thin flannel belt as he pads out toward the kitchen. Sure enough, there are two men standing against his counter. At least the taller one looks contrite.

“Mr. Singer,” he starts, but Bobby cuts him off before he can spit out any half-assed apology.

“Save it,” he says. “You wake me up in the middle of the goddamn night you're going to at least wait until I've had enough coffee to be able to listen.” He opens the yellow tupperware canister he'd stored his instant coffee in, only to find it empty. He sighs. “Balls.”

“Hey, don't worry old man,” the other one says, holding out a to-go cup, steam smoking out in curls from the hot liquid inside. He grins. “We came prepared.”

“How the hell'd you get coffee at this time of night?” Bobby takes a long, slow sip and decides that he doesn't really care how he got it; he'll take it. “Never mind. Angel magic or whatever, I don't give a damn.” He takes another sip. “Now tell me what the hell it is you want or get out of my house.”

“You've been having the dreams.”

“Christ.” Bobby rolls his eyes and takes another drink of his coffee. It's too quick and it burns, but he doesn't care. That's better to think about than what the two assholes in front of him are here to say. “That don't sound like a question.”

He'd met the two men – or angels, really – about a month ago when they'd appeared in his yard suddenly, claiming to be harbingers of the apocalypse. And Bobby was supposed to be their prophet. Their goddamned prophet. He'd thought he'd just run into two guys a few nuts short of a bushel and he'd barked out a quick 'get off my property' and fired a few warning shots. When that didn't work and they started moving closer he'd fired off a few more warning shots – right into their chests. The bullets hadn't affected them at all, and Bobby thought he was the one who was crazy. But they'd shown him their wings, even flown around the yard a little bit, and after talking a little more they'd finally managed to convince him that they were at least close to what they claimed they were. He still wasn't one hundred percent on the whole angel train, but there'd been some weird shit happening, and while angels might seem unlikely, the apocalypse was starting to seem more and more like a possibility.

The tall one, the one who'd said his name was Sam, steps forward. “It... it really wasn't a question. We need to know what you've seen. Please, Mr. Singer.”

“If I'm your damn prophet, ain't the dreams I'm having supposed to be from you?”

The other one shakes his head. “The whole system's screwed up one side and down the other. Heaven's not exactly what you'd call, uh, forthcoming about all this shit.” He looks evasive and Bobby didn't get to be his age without being able to tell when someone was hiding something.

Getting information from them had been like pulling teeth so far, though, so Bobby decides to pick his battles. He sets his coffee down on the table and crosses his arms. “It was about the two of you,” he says. “And a human. Some guy, couldn't really see who it was, that you said would be the one to save us. The one who'd put an end to this apocalypse once and for all.”

xxx

Castiel had been a hunter for nearly as long as he could remember. There was just white noise in his head about much of his early life, and he couldn’t really remember his parents or much of his childhood - life had started for him bouncing around from home to home, then an attack when he was fifteen and setting out on his own, trying to defeat the monsters that until then he'd never believed were real.

It had been difficult. For a long time he didn't really know what he was doing, and other hunters didn't take him seriously. He was just a bumbling, angry kid – until he met Bobby Singer. Bobby'd been a hunter nearly his entire life as well and he was about as well-connected as it was possible for an asocial, borderline misanthropic middle-aged man set out in the middle of nowhere to be. His house had become a sort of hub, the base for Castiel and a lot of other hunters without any other family to regroup and rest.

He pulls into Singer Salvage yard just as the sun is sinking into a fiery puddle of gold on the horizon. The truck he'd borrowed had barely made it all the way back and he sighs as he slams the door shut, knowing Bobby would be cross.

Cas walks into the house, immediately bombarded by the easy din of all the other hunters there – all the people that he'd come to think of as family.

“I'm back,” he calls, hanging his big, beige trench coat up on the hook by the door. No one answers and he walks into the kitchen. Gabriel and Balthazar are sitting at the table talking, and Rachel's on the phone in the corner, writing something down in a small notepad sitting on the counter.

“Back already, Cas?” Balthazar asks when he sees him, holding out a hand. Cas grabs it, expecting to shake, but Balthazar pulls him down and thumps him affectionately on the back. “Thought you'd be gone for another week.”

“That was the plan,” he answered, smiling at Rachel as she gives him a warm, if distracted, wave. “But I met up with another hunter and we got the rugaru a lot more quickly than I would have on my own.”

“Nice job,” Gabriel says. He offers Castiel a fist to bump, and a little awkwardly Castiel reciprocates.

He stays for another minute or so, going over the details of the hunt with Gabriel and Balthazar, then heads out of the kitchen to catch up with everyone else.

Uriel and Anna are in the living room. Anna has a heavy blanket draped over her legs, a plate balanced on her knee. It has a small, half-eaten slice of chocolate cake on it. The fork is still dangling from Anna's mouth, her focus entirely on the book in her hand. One hand rests at the corner, ready to turn the page. The sight makes Castiel smile.

“You're back.” Uriel's sitting beside her, looking between the television and an old leather bound book about vampires sitting in front of him on the old, weather-worn coffee table. Of all the others, Castiel has spent the most time with Uriel and Anna. Balthazar might be closer to him, but he can’t help but feel a certain connection - hunting together for a long time will do that, no matter how disparate the people involved are.

Castiel sits down between them. “I am,” he says. 

Anna looks up then, the fork falling out of her mouth. “Cas,” she says delightedly. “You’re back!” She gives him an awkward sideways hug, pulling him tight against her.

“Hello Anna,” he says, a rush of affection jolting through him. He picks the fork from the ground and hands it to her. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“Did the hunt go well?” Uriel asks. He takes off the glasses he’s wearing and looks at Cas, sitting to his right. His favorite pastime, one that no one - no matter how well they know him - can really explain, is watching old videos of stand-up comedians. He rarely laughs, just watches the screen with a quiet intensity - except for the occasional, thoughtful chuckle. While Bobby’s set up when it comes to hunting is as high-tech as it can get, he’s never really gotten around to updating his home system. He only has a VCR, and all the videos Uriel has are quite literally video tapes, either bought from old stores or procured from the internet. They’d even gotten a few people had taped straight from the television. It’s currently George Carlin that’s on, though Uriel seems to be paying only half attention. And it’s Castiel his attention is on now, looking as serious and thoughtful as ever.

Castiel nods in response to his question. “Yes,” he said. He rolls the heels of his hands down his thighs, smoothing out the rough denim. “Much quicker than I was expecting, actually.”

“Good.” Uriel nods, looked pleased as he turns his attention back to the screen. “A rugaru, you said?”

“That’s right.” 

Anna nudges his shoulder with hers, smiling again, evidently glad to have him back. Castiel returns the smile.

It’s pretty calm for the rest of the night; some of the hunters bunk down at Bobby’s, in either an upstairs guest bedroom, the old basement, or on cots in a converted barn out back. Some of the others go into town, or get back on the road. Gabriel, for one, prefers driving at night, and he always seems to have some new friend or other to stay with if he needs to. His newest girlfriend is a woman he’s only told them is called Kali, though they all doubt that’s her real name. She and Gabriel fight a lot, and she only recently - and quite accidentally from what Castiel understands - found out he’s a hunter. 

Tonight, though, it’s just Castiel at Bobby’s, along with a strange pair of twins. One’s a woman and one’s a man, though neither really seems particularly concerned with gender. They barely speak to each other, at least that the others can tell, and no one knows who they really are, or where they came from. They both answer to Raphael.

He stays there often enough that he has his own room. He doesn’t keep much in it, and all the furniture is Bobby’s, but there’s an unspoken rule that if Castiel is there, that’s his room. The walls are papered in a blue striped pattern, and there’s an old, four-poster bed and matching dresser set. Castiel throws his bag onto a chair in the corner - he never bothers to unpack. Even though Singer Salvage is his home, he never stays more than a few nights if he can help it. He is meant to be hunting, and as soon as Bobby has something for him he’ll be off again, back on the road.

Castiel decides to save his shower for the morning - the bathroom schedule’s probably full, anyway - and strips out of his dirty clothes, pulling on the soft, cotton pajama bottoms and worn t-shirt he kept in the dresser. They were the only things he kept in the dresser besides a few clean pairs of boxers and his one keepsake from his childhood: an old family bible. There’s a family tree on the inside cover, but it isn’t filled out. His parents probably meant him to do it, as there was an inscription at the top. “To Castiel,” it said. “Love from your Mother and Father.” It was all he had of them, all he’d ever had of them - and it didn’t even tell him their names.

Most people he knew with a history similar to his own had very little faith; most hunters had even less. But not Castiel. The idea that all of these terrible things happened for no reason at all, that the entire world was doomed to nothing but chaos, without order or a plan deeply galled him. He could understand why some of his brethren cursed God, but he had faith that everything would work out as it was meant to be. He had to believe that. He flipped off the light and climbed wearily into bed, pulling the heavy quilt up and over his body, tucked just under his chin. He closed his eyes and began to pray.

The next morning, Cas finds Bobby in the kitchen, muttering grumpily to himself over coffee.

“Morning,” Castiel says, sitting down at the table. Bobby just grunts in response and all but throws a mug at him. To his credit, there is a splash of coffee in it. 

“You staying for awhile,” Bobby asks, “or you heading out today?”

Castiel takes a long drink of his coffee and then sighs deeply in contentment. “That depends,” he says. “Do you have a case for me?”

“Maybe,” Bobby tells him. “Go talk to Rufus; I think he’s got something he could use some help with.”

“I’ll need to borrow another car.”

Bobby grunts. “Another?”

“Sorry,” he says with a shrug. “The truck’s about to give out.”

Bobby looks down at the floor for a moment then sighs. “You’re in luck,” he says finally. “Just got something sweet in. A Chevy Impala. 1967. You break it, though, boy, and I’ll break you, too.”

xxx

“Where's that Impala?” Dean asks, floating a few inches above the ground like always, his head level with Sam's. He looks around the lot. “Bobby, come on. Don't tell me you sold her.”

Bobby takes off his hat and shakes his head. “Nope, ain't sold her yet,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He puts his hat back on and looks at Dean, shrugging in lieu of apology. “Let someone take her out. Another hunter who needed wheels.”

Dean groans and lets his head fall back, looking hurt. His wings flutter gently behind him. “Aww man. And I was looking forward to seeing her.”

“It's just a car,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. He sighs. “We didn't come down here for that anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean sinks down until his boots touch earth. He glances at Bobby, looking contrite.

Bobby knows what that look means and he licks his lips, folding his arms over his chest. “Let me guess,” he says. “You got some other goddamn apocalyptic omen for me to look out for.”

Sam nods. “Something like that,” he says. “We've figured out who it is we're looking for. The man we told you about.”

“Yeah,” Dean continues, “and we think it's one of your guys – one of the hunters in that weird little family you've got staying with you.”

xxx

He’s still standing there, and even though Cas is sure his eyes are decieving him, he’s sure he’s just seeing things, there are still wings.

Cas swallows and tries not to stare. But it's hard - god it's hard, when the man's got wings, real wings, folded in with the tips just a few inches above the ground. The span would be enormous when he stretched them out and Castiel can't help but imagine the man taking to the sky, hearing the heavy beat of those big, beautiful wings. 

And they are beautiful, Castiel can't help but note - both men have beautiful wings. The taller has a sleeker set, with long gunmetal gray feathers. It's the other man who's got most of Castiel's attention, though. His wings are fluffier, with broader feathers. The points of the wings are a warm, chocolately brown, and so are the thickest part of the feathers. But as the color moves toward each feather's tip, it turns to a creamy off-white color. The wings looks strong. Maybe not fast, but steady - and always protective of whoever wound up under them.

"You're... angels." The word tastes off in his mouth, like a thick, mediciney flavor he can't quite swallow down. It's difficult to believe, and somehow, seeing the wings, he's even more incredulous. Surely it's all in his head. A hallucination. Or maybe a dream. He's tempted for a moment to try to wake himself up, but he feels lucid, he feels awake. If it is a dream, it's the most realistic one he's ever had.

"Yeah, yeah, angels," the one with the brown and white wings says. "We've been over that. Look, you're Cas, right?"

He nods. "Castiel. Castiel Milton."

"Okay, great." The impatient look leaves his face as quickly as if it were never there and stares at Cas intensely, urgency like a great beacon shining from his eyes. It makes Castiel nervous. "You need to come with us."

"What?" He steps back, suddenly feeling crowded and still not completely convinced he's actually seeing what he thinks he is. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Dude, you have to. You're the one who can end this - you're the one who has to end it. Because if you don't come with us, then they're going to get to you, and then we're all screwed."

Cas bites his lip and tries to keep his head clear. "They? Who do you mean - they? The... the forces of hell?"

The angel scoffs. "No. Well... Maybe. But they're not who we mean."

"Castiel, we're... we're not typical angels," the other one, the one with the gray wings, says. "We don't actually want the apocalypse to happen. It's not... it's not time. Heaven's not ready for all the people that would be coming, and. And we don’t want to force this on humanity. Not our war - not now, not ever.”

“Something’s fishy up there anyway.” He sighs and scratches his head, looking down to the ground. “Look, man, we didn’t want to have to tell you this, but... our Father? God? The big guy upstairs? No one’s seen him in years.”

“We don’t think this is his plan.”

“Hey, fuck plans. This is stupid, and we’re not going to let it happen.” He looks back at Cas, his expression appealing. “And we need you.”

“But. Why me?”

“You’re the righteous man,” the angel says. “In a few weeks, something bad is going to happen.”

“At least it’s supposed to happen,” the other one interjects.

The other angel rolls his eyes. “Right, yeah, supposed to happen. And because of that, you’re going to make a deal to save someone you care about. They’re going to be safe, but you’re going to go to hell.”

Castiel looks off toward the darkening sky. It’s an absurd story, really, and there’s a part of him - a large part of him - that’s telling him not to listen to anything these strange winged men say. And it’s true, what they’ve said doesn’t make much sense. But they know things they shouldn’t know - that no one should know - and they have wings. It could be a trick, true; maybe they came from a circus or a theater. Maybe they were props somewhere. The clothes they’re wearing aren’t tight - it’s possible they both have on braces under their shirts, holding the wings up. But even as unlikely - before today he might have said impossible - as it is that they actually have wings, he’s inclined to think they’re real. They look real, almost just like the wings of a bird. They flutter gently with any breeze and even though he can’t see exactly where the wings connect with their bodies, they seem to go right through the shirts, as though the clothing had been built around them.

And if they really do have wings, then maybe they are angels.

He’s always been a little skeptical about some things, but there’s a part of him that will always be a man of faith, and if he sees proof - irrefutable proof - of something then he’ll believe. And if they really are angels, which he’s starting to believe they are, then maybe he should consider the rest of their story with a little more open-mindedness as well.

“I’m no one special,” he says finally, not quite able to meet their eyes. “Why would you need me?”

“Look, it’s just... it was always meant to be you, okay?” the angel sighs impatiently. “We don’t have all day here, Cas, and if you’re not going to help us then we need to get our asses into gear working on a contingency plan. So you gotta let us know - are you with us or not?”

He blinks, saying yes in his head but not quite able to open his mouth to articulate the words. 

“Please, Castiel,” the other one says. He looks sad and beseeching. “The whole world is at stake.”

“Yeah. Come on, man.” The angel licks his lips and ducks his head. “Please.”

Something about that is enough, and though worry twists his gut Cas is ready to agree, to give himself over to their cause. He only hopes it’s the right one. “All right,” he says. “If you need me, you’ll have me. I’ll help you.”

xxx

Their names, it turns out, are Dean and Sam.

“Your name is Dean?” Castiel asks, sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table looking over an old book of lore. There’s a small section about angels included in it, but it doesn’t really match up with what he’s been told.

“What’s wrong with Dean?” he asks, suddenly defensive. His wings are tucked away, hidden from view in some sort of metaphysical pocket. 

Castiel’s mouth tightens. “It’s not what I’d expect from... an angel.”

“Oh, right,” he says, “like your name. We don’t really have langauge, not like humans do. What you call us are just rough translations. So, yeah, I could have gone with something like Castiel, but. I picked this name.” He grins. “Like James Dean.”

Sam laughs. “My brother’s what you’d call enamored with humanity,” he explains. “We’re not supposed to stay long in your world without a mission, and while we’re here we’re supposed to remain observers. A lot of the higher orders of angels hate humanity, think you’ve ruined what our Father gave you.”

Dean pulls a disgusted face. “Yeah, and when they come to earth, even though they hate humans, they possess them.”

Castiel drops the pen he’s holding. “What?” he asks sharply. “Like demons?”

“No,” Sam says quickly. “Not like demons. Angels have to have consent to take a human as a vessel - they can’t possess anyone.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re not assholes about it, though. Some of them are just manipulative bastards - but as long as the poor sap says yes...” Dean shrugs.

Sam looks uncomfortably down at the floor. “Yeah. As long as they say yes, it counts as consent.”

Dean gestures down his body with one hand, making a wiggling motion with his eyebrows and wearing a rakish grin. “Now this body? I had it custom-made. Pretty damn sexy, right?”

Sam shakes his head, but he grins, too. “It’s very unorthodox,” he says, “but yes - instead of taking vessels, we made bodies for ourselves. As close to human as possible.”

“It’s why you can see our wings. Normally they’re not corporeal, and flying’s not really flying. More like teleporting. I mean, me and Sam can still do that.” Dean grins, broad and open, showing off a set of straight, white teeth. “But flying’s more fun.”

xxx

“No!” Castiel screams, pushing away from Sam. He’s fed-up and angry and the condolences the angels are trying to offer only serve to fuel that rage. “No, I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. I’m done.”

“Wait a minute, Cas,” Dean says, his own face going storm-dark with anger, “you can’t just quit. You - “

“If I can’t quit, then stop me,” he says. “I’ve had it. Everything I ever thought about you, about religion, about God, about... about everything! It’s all a lie. I’ve been wrong my entire life. I’ve been playing make-believe for my entire fucking life. And you know what? I’m sick of it.”

“You think this is easy for us?” Dean asks, moving towards him with a lethal grace. He pushes against Cas’ chest, hard, sending the man stumbling back. “You think that because you’re the Righteous Man you’re suddenly special? That the rules work differently for you? You’re right, you know nothing about us. But you know what else? That’s not my fault, and it’s not my problem. Man the hell up, Castiel, and deal with it.”

For a long, tense moment no one speaks, and Sam’s eyes flick back and forth between Cas and his brother. His hands are curled into fists and the lines of his body are tight, ready to leap into action if things escalate. Cas can’t hurt Dean, not really, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try. Cas’ eyes harden and he presses his lips together. He reaches down and grabs his old bible. “Goodbye,” he says, his voice rough and hard. He throws the bible over Dean’s shoulder, hard as he can, and walks out of the room as it thumps against the wall and then falls, it’s covers open like wings, to the ground.

xxx

“Here.” Dean sinks down onto the hood of the Impala beside Cas. His wings stretch out behind him, brushing across Cas’s shoulders. After a second or two of shuffling, they disappear, and Dean looks just like a regular man. He pull out a book and hands it over to Cas.

For a second, he doesn’t recognize it, but as soon as his hand hits the leather he realizes what it is. “You brought me back my bible,” he says, bemused. He looks up at Dean, a frown stretching across his mouth. “But... I thought...”

Dean shrugs. “Hey, if you don’t want it, throw it the hell away again. I don’t care. I just remember you saying that it was sort of like your family’s so I figured you’d want it back. For sentimental value or some shit like that.”

Despite himself, Castiel smiles. “Thank you, Dean.” He puts one hand on the front cover for a long moment, then opens it up, reading the inscription written inside. All their names are there, too: his, Anna’s, Balthazar’s, and even Uriel’s. The only one missing is Bobby; he makes a mental note to put his name in when he gets a chance. “To be honest, I... regretted throwing it out, even though I was angry with you, with God, with...” He sighs. “With everything.” 

His usual bluster gone, Dean just nods, sitting quietly beside him.

“Everything I’ve ever believed turning out to be wrong.”

“Well not everything,” Dean says. “I mean, we are still the good guys.”

Castiel laughs, but it’s without mirth. “Most of you anyway,” he says. Dean doesn’t answer and Castiel sighs again.

“Look, I know it’s hard,” Dean tells him, turning towards him. Stubbornly, Castiel avoids his eyes. “I mean, you always believed there was a plan, that everything had purpose and reason. I wish I could tell you it did. It might be easier if things were like that, if everything was already decided in advance. But you guys have free will. You get to decide. And there are some angels who hate that, who see it as a burden on humanity. But angels like me and Sam? For the longest time we envied that.”

His words make Castiel pause. “Past tense? You don’t envy it anymore?”

Dean grins, almost bashfully, and runs a hand through his hair. “After awhile, Cas, we started to realize that being able to envy free will was just the gateway to having it. Angels were made to obey, yeah, but...” He clears his throat. “We can rebel, too.”

“Right.”

They both stay quiet for a long time, the afternoon sun turning the world golden, cicadas clicking around them. 

“I have something for you, too,” Cas says finally, noticing Dean starting to get twitchy. “Here.” He stuffs the bible into his bag and then pulls out a cassette tape. “Don’t tell Bobby I took it, though. I would have gotten a CD, but.” He pats the hood they’re sitting on. “The car only has a tape deck.”

Dean takes it eagerly. “Man, Sam might make fun of me but that’s just because he has no taste. You guys have us beat when it comes to music.”

Castiel laughs. “I never thought I’d meet an angel who loved rock’n’roll.”

xxx

Castiel lifts his face up. Sam is sitting on the hood of the car, still talking on the cell phone to Bobby. Dean stands beside him, his heavy brown wings brushing Castiel’s shoulder. His head turns and he looks at Cas with downturned mouth and puckered brows. “What?” he asks.

The night air is cool, but pleasantly so, and Cas shifts where he stands, something warm unfurling deep in his belly. “The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament shows his handiwork,” he says, nodding towards the sky. Dean huffs and rolls his eyes, shaking his head a little. But his wing draws closer to Castiel and he doesn’t speak. Sam walks toward them, ready to tell them what he’s learned from Bobby, but as soon as he’s close enough to get a good look at them, surprise registers on his face. Dean just shakes his head again and shrugs. Sam gives Cas a tentative smile and goes to stand beside his brother. They stand there together for a long time, silently, staring up at the star-speckled sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a mangled line from an Emily Dickinson poem. What Cas says at the end is from Psalm 19.


End file.
